Siblings
by rupzydaisy
Summary: ...Because they were siblings. It's the only, non-logical reason which can withstand counter arguments. And it's the only thing which can explain why things were they way they were.


_Now, after Desperate Times Call For Desperate Measures, I got this idea about the two brothers. :D  
Because this is basically what happens with sibilings... _

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Siblings

"Sherlock," John said looking up from the newspaper after a long Saturday morning of deafening silence. While he was sitting in his armchair reading the news, his flatmate was working on another experiment, this time using what looked like slices of skin and several beakers full of colourful liquid.

"Mmmm." Sherlock replied and John turned around to watch his flatmate scribble down some observations on his arm before returning to peer closely at the beaker.

"I'm going to go see Harriet tomorrow." John continued, still unsure whether or not Sherlock was even listening to him.

"Why?" Sherlock drawled bluntly and John twisted to see the consulting detective staring at him with a confused face.

"What'd you mean _why_?"

"You argued with your sister on the phone last week. She has not come to visit your new accommodation. You dislike the fact that she is an alcoholic and have resignatated yourself to the fact that you both do not get along."

"Actually I was going to go see how she's doing." John replied slowly.

"Hmmm, the more logical course of action would be to avoid her." Sherlock replied reaching across the table for another pipette.

John scoffed, "I'm not going to avoid my sister."

Sherlock paused for a moment, then he asked "Why not?"

"Because she's my sister."

"And how does that make any difference. You will continue to argue until she overcomes her addiction to alcohol." Sherlock scoffed and John could hear the '_unlikely'_ deduction in his voice.

"Because I'm her brother." John defended.

"That's a pitiful argument."

"Yes well if you had a sister or a brother then you'd understand." John stared at the detective who had finished adding the solution to the beaker and watched at thick smoke spewed from the liquid. "Is that meant to happen?" He asked dubiously.

"No." Sherlock stated as he added a light blue liquid from another beaker. The smoke stopped but John could see it fizzing slightly. "Explain." Sherlock demanded, turning around to face John who set the newspaper back down on his knees.

"Explain what?"

"Your argument. You're her brother..." Sherlock waved his hand impatiently.

"Anyone who's got a brother or a sister would know. When we were younger me and Harriet would fight and call each other all sorts and then later on we'd sit and watch TV together or play a game. It's just how siblings are." He chuckled, "One time we ended up making cake. It was a disaster."

Sherlock fell quiet as John explained and didn't interject as he normally did when John spoke. "So, you'll go and see her_ because _you're her brother?" He asked for clarification.

"Yeah, that's what families do. Besides I need to go and listen to her drop not so subtle hints on what she wants for Christmas. Maybe I'll get her to write me a list. I don't want a gift card thrown at my head this time round."

Sherlock threw John a quizzical look over the table and then returned his attention to the foaming liquid.

"Apparently gift cards aren't in the spirit of Christmas. That was her excuse anyway. Think she just wanted something wrapped up." John replied shaking his head before returning his attention to the newspaper.

His phone buzzed on the table, once, twice, three times. "Sherlock, can you pass me my phone?" He asked.

"Busy." Sherlock replied not taking his eyes off the foaming blue liquid as he immersed now what looked like a severed big toe.

For a fleeting moment John wondered where the slices of skin went as he watched the froth, then sighed loudly before pulling himself up off the chair and picked up the phone. "Speak of the devil." He waggled the phone which had _Harry_ flashing on the screen.

"Mmmm."

John shook his head as he walked into his room to answer his sister's call.

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When Mycroft knocked on Sherlock's door he assumed that no one was going to answer. Normally, when he had a case for his brother to solve, and they were the ones with legwork, his brother would simply refuse to answer the door. And his phone calls. Or Anthea's text messages. Any form of communication to be honest. So as he stood outside 221B Baker Street with the Bruce Parrington plans case in a beige folder tucked neatly under his right arm he knocked on the door with a feeling of déjà vu because he knew he could bet that Sherlock would once again not answer.

Yet, if he had placed a bet he would have lost his money. Because Sherlock had opened the door, and then strode off up the stairs, apparently inviting him in. Or forgetting to slam the door on his face. So Mycroft Holmes walked up the stairs with a surprised smile on his face. Which he then hid as he walked into the flat and took his seat opposite. And although his brother had sat there plucking at the strings of his beloved violin as though there wasn't another in the flat Mycroft knew that his brother had somehow learnt that slamming the door in his older brother's face was not going to stop him from watching over Sherlock. Besides, if he didn't then who would?

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_Reviews chase away the frost and snow outside! _


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